


Birthday

by freckleslikeconstellations



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Art Gallery Exhibition, Birthday, F/M, Fluff, Mycroft being cute and cheeky, No series 4 spoilers, References to UK politics, Sexual References, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Surprises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 16:01:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9332585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckleslikeconstellations/pseuds/freckleslikeconstellations
Summary: When it appears that a certain Mr. Holmes has forgotten about your birthday you're not best pleased. Will things get any better for you?





	

**Author's Note:**

> Hi,  
> Thanks for your support! :) 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this and just so you know there are no series 4 spoilers here. :)

You check the calendar in the living room as you go past it. You do this every time to make sure that nothing’s changed. In particular you’ve been doing this a lot of late to make sure that nothing’s been added to the date that you’ve circled in red three times. If you discover that there is then you’re going to be cross. At first, not looking properly on your way by you think that it’s the same as ever. But then you realize that there’s a change there after all. You stop. Turn. Your feet hurry towards it. Your finger goes close to the date anxiously. Your lips part and you let out a whoosh of breath when you see what’s been written in neat, blue ink in the middle of your frantic circling. 

 

 _Meeting in Brussels._

 

You stare at it. Mouthing the words slowly one by one because they don’t seem to be sinking in. Meeting. In. Brussels. You tilt your head and place a hand on your hip. Meeting in Brussels. No way. This can’t be happening. “Mycroft! Where are you? You better get your arse in here right this second!” 

 

Your boyfriend Mycroft Holmes scurries in from the kitchen, dishcloth in hand as he wears a light blue shirt with the top two buttons undone and smart black trousers. He raises an auburn eyebrow at you, before he looks over his shoulder and down at his peachy behind with those blue eyes of his. “Was it just my arse you wanted or did you require the rest of me too?” He looks back at you. 

 

You throw a scowl in his direction, before you yank the calendar off the wall. Suddenly Mycroft doesn’t look quite so confident. “Didn't we say that red-circled days were important to us? Ones that we wanted to spend together? Wasn't that the _whole_ reason we started doing this? So we could keep track of each other’s schedules? Is that not why I’ve been entering them in your diary too?”-

 

“Which you really shouldn't have started doing. If anyone knew that you have access to my diary”- 

 

“None of it makes sense to me anyway!” Mycroft swallows and you release a bit of a breath, before you continue your diatribe, “Is that why I’ve been calling your PA to tell her about them, so that you have someone else to remind you? And then, after all of that, you still go and do what you want anyway?” 

 

“It’s a meeting in Brussels about Brexit my dear, I can hardly”-

 

“I have had it up to here with Brexit!” you cry, gesturing at a height above yourself. “Its already spoilt countless dinners. I get that nobody has a clue, but why does it always have to fall on you? I'm not letting it ruin my birthday too.”

 

Something in Mycroft’s face changes. _“Ah.”_

 

“Don’t tell me you forgot?” you ask him in exasperation, before you huff out a breath when you see that he has. “Did you not check?” 

 

“I”-

 

You march towards him and shove the calendar to his chest. Mycroft holds it there with his hands. “I don’t believe this. What’s the point of me even trying to make this work by coming up with things like that if you won’t even do your best too?” With that you push past him hard and go upstairs. 

 

*

 

Over the next few days you spend a long time feeling infuriated about it all. The thing that you find the worst is that Mycroft doesn’t even seem to care. He hasn’t even apologized. Every time it comes up all he’ll say is that he can’t miss this meeting, before he adds, in what you’re sure he thinks is a winning attempt at trying to placate you, that besides it isn't like it’s a special birthday anyway. You always frown and walk away from him at that. Isn't every birthday meant to feel special?

 

You’re feeling so disenchanted with him that a few days before your birthday you tell him one night just after you’ve both gone to bed, “I think I’ll go to Mum’s.”

 

“Hmm?” Mycroft rolls around, an annoyed look on his face as if you’ve disrupted his thought. 

 

“For my birthday,” you clarify, giving him a level look, before you elaborate, “Since you won’t be here there’s no point in me staying on my own.”

 

“Oh right, yes,” he says, before he turns around again. 

 

You have to bite down hard on your bottom lip as you look at his back. You want to ask if that’s all he’s got to say. You want to cry and whack him with your hands. Won’t he see how important this is? Put you above Brexit for once? Are you that unimportant to him?

 

*

 

Thursday night you confess, “Mum’s busy too, just like everyone else seems to be, so it looks like I’ll be on my own here after all.” Mycroft just grunts. Suddenly you can’t even help it any more. “Do you even care?” you say, your voice full of hurt. You sit up. Mycroft does too in a dazed sort of sleepy confusion and looks at you as he rapidly blinks. You've had it with him. You don’t even want to be this close to him any more. “You know what?”-you toss your side of the duvet back-“Have fun in Brussels coming up with the plan that Theresa May’s already supposed to have figured out. Tell her to do some actual work if you see her won’t you instead of just saying that 'Brexit means Brexit?'” 

 

“She’s not invited to this one,” Mycroft gets out, before he can help it. 

 

“I'm beginning to know how she feels,” you say. With that you swing out of bed and make for the door. 

 

“Where are you going?” Mycroft asks, and it’s only the fact that you note he sounds slightly less disinterested now that makes you stop. 

 

“To the spare room.” 

 

“Hmm.” Mycroft shrugs. “Seems a bit childish to me.” He settles back down again. 

 

The slam of the door heralds your exit. 

 

*

 

Mycroft might have the next morning free to sort out packing and last minute arrangements, but you don’t. In fact you fully intend to leave for your office job without saying anything to him. That might make him stew on his trip to Brussels and make him realize what he’s done you think. But when you come downstairs with your bag, ready to leave, it’s to find that Mycroft’s waiting for you at the bottom. You let out a little ‘Humph’ of indignation at your plan being spoilt so easily and try to move past him anyway. He catches you upon your shoulders and moves you back. You look stubbornly at the spot over his left shoulder. 

 

“Right,” he announces, his voice tense. “Well, I guess I’ll see you when I see you then?” You nod. He pecks you on the cheek and steps aside. You feel like crying when you leave the house. He hadn’t even wished you a good birthday tomorrow. You half turn and look back at the house. Part of you hopes that he’ll come bursting out the door, swoop you up into his arms and pepper your face with kisses, telling you to forgive him and that of course he won’t be leaving you on your own for your birthday. No such thing happens however and you turn around a moment later feeling disappointed. 

 

You miss Mycroft peering through the blinds at you. Instead you spend the rest of the day feeling like you want to cry. 

 

*

 

You wake the following morning, in contrast, feeling warm and happy after having a pleasant dream. You can even smell the scent of the man you love as if he’s close by, his body imprinted next to yours. But you can also smell the scent of bacon too and you know that it must be Mycroft who’s cooking it. It must be Sunday. He always brings you breakfast in bed on Sunday, even on those odd occasions where he has to work, and it’s one of your favourite things in the world. He always brings you a single flower in a transparent vase and you look forward each time to seeing which one it is. Whilst the breakfast ranges from being a cooked one to things like croissant and pain au chocolat. He’d even brought you the cereal you used to love as a child once when you were feeling down. He always brings in the breakfast with a tender smile upon his face, the one that he reserves for you. Then he’ll place the tray carefully down and hand you the flower. Sitting up in bed by this point you’ll breathe the scent of it in, before you’ll go on to fall even more in love with him as he sits by you, whilst you eat. On special occasions he’ll even read you poems as you do so. It’s heaven. But then your brain pushes one piece of logic through your happy thought. It’s not Sunday. It’s Saturday. Your birthday, and more importantly than that Mycroft’s in Brussels so who the hell is using your kitchen to make breakfast in? Your eyes open. Your heart begins to thrum. You sit up in bed with a jerk of motion. Surely the alarm would have gone off if it was an intruder? Mind you it had once gone off in the early hours of the morning apparently for no reason at all. You’d been alone in the house at the time and you’d jumped up, all coiled nerves and anxiety, to find that the alarm was saying there had been movement detected in Zone 10. You hadn’t even realized that you _had_ a Zone 10. Mycroft, on his return from America this time, had told you: ‘Oh yes, there are twenty-three zones,’ as casually as anything. The intrusion now you think, especially since the alarm hasn’t gone off, is probably down to Sherlock. He’s an expert at entering the house and subduing the alarm if need be. One time he’d decided to use the house as a stakeout when Mycroft and you had been making love. Since you hadn’t concluded and only just got to the point of penetration neither Mycroft or you had been amused when the tread of footsteps had come, followed by Sherlock quickly throwing the door open. Of course he’d shut it again just as fast. Let out a loud, _‘Urgh!’_ and said something about how it was going to take weeks of therapy for him to get over that. You hadn’t quite heard it properly because you’d been in the middle of letting out a loud shriek, whilst Mycroft had frantically tried to cover up your modesty with his own body. Needless to say Sherlock had decided to continue with his operation nonetheless and you’d gone on to endure an hour long lecture that Mycroft had given his brother about timing and the preservation of privacy in between Sherlock’s random mutterings of information. In the end you’d left them to it and gone to make some tea for you all. Neither Mycroft or you had been in the mood to continue what you’d started once Sherlock had left. Feeling glad if it is Sherlock that he’s caught you in a more decent position this time you get quickly dressed, grab a baton that Sherlock had once stole from the Met and which Mycroft had then proceeded to confiscate from him, putting it under the bed and telling you to bear it in mind in case of emergency. You extend it as far as it will go and creep slowly to the door. You peer out. Hoping that the most frightening thing you’ll witness is the mess of Sherlock’s black hair. You nearly drop your baton. 

 

 _“Mycroft!”_

 

“Oh my dear.” He turns to you from where he’s standing by the stove. “How can I make you breakfast in bed if you’re not in bed? You’re also in far too many clothes. I’ve drawn up a plan for us today and one or two of the items on it involve you being in significantly less clothes than you’re in right now.” He raises his eyebrows suggestively. 

 

You squint at him. You feel like you’ve been wandering around the desert for days and now you’re hallucinating. Can it really be him? Are you sure that you’re not just making his appearance up in your head? Dreaming about him maybe? Dreaming that he’s standing there with his white shirtsleeves that have blue stripes on slightly rolled up, grey trousers and the blue apron that you’d bought for him on his own birthday once, which has a silhouette of a white crown upon it and the words, ‘His Lordship,’ beneath it, also in white? You’d be fairly amused by that last part and turned on by the fact that his auburn hair is slightly ruffled, by what he’s just said and by the fact that some chest hair is visible because he’s got the top two buttons of his shirt undone if you weren’t so damn shocked. Is it really him? Finally managing to get your mouth in gear and find out you ask, “I thought you were supposed to be in Brussels?” You bite down on your lip at the way that your voice comes out so defensively. But then, thinking that actually you’ve got every right for it to come out in that way, you fold your arms nonetheless. 

 

Mycroft’s face softens. He abandons the bacon he’s been frying and comes across to you. “F/N my dear did you ever think that I could forget about your birthday?” You look up at him uncertainly now. He stops before you and tentatively lifts your elbows so that your hands come to be resting on his waist. “Even if you hadn’t of circled it on every calendar that we own or done the same in my diary I wouldn't have.” You open your mouth now. “It’s the one date that I could never forget.” He takes your hand and holds it to his heart with his own. “It’s seared in here.” 

 

Your mouth shuts again and you begin to feel emotional. Your lips rub together for a moment. “But Brussels”-

 

“There was never any meeting my dear. I just wanted to surprise you. I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings along the way.” His gaze turns more anxious now. 

 

“Oh God.” You cross your hands behind his neck and peck him on the lips. “I'm sorry too. I must have been dreadful to live with these past few days?”

 

“Its been… _trying,”_ he teases. You bat at him with your hand. He smothers your lips in a kiss. You begin to rake your hands through his hair and push against him, but when the bacon gives an almighty sizzle he pulls away from you with a start. “But I suspect that it’ll be even more so if I burn your breakfast now.” He looks at you apologetically and hurries off again. 

 

You sit down at the table that he’s already laid out with a smile and pour yourself some orange juice. 

 

He brings your breakfast over to you and you smile down at it. A blush comes over your face when you see that the eggs have been made into heart shapes. Mycroft’s a romantic at heart. 

 

“You like it?” he says. 

 

“Mmmhmm,” you grin up at him, your hands going automatically to your cutlery. “I'm just trying to imagine you browsing the Internet for ideas.” 

 

“What’s to say that I didn't come up with it on my own?” Mycroft says, pretending to be hurt, before he bends to whisper in your ear, “Don’t go giving away all my secrets.”

 

“Never,” you vow happily, swinging your head to kiss him. You turn to your breakfast again. 

 

“But first,” he says quietly, withdrawing a rose from behind his back and giving it to you when you look back at him. Your expression of joy deepens as you breathe in its scent. “It is your birthday,” Mycroft shrugs, as if there was no other flower he could have given you. “Allow me to put it into some water.” He takes it off you once more and you begin to eat. “So,” he begins prominently, once he’s placed the rose in a transparent vase that’s half full of water and put it in front of you, “Are you happy with your surprise?” He sits opposite you with his own breakfast. 

 

“It’s the best one ever. Thank you.”

 

“Don’t go getting too ahead of yourself,” Mycroft warns, but he looks pleased nonetheless. 

 

“What’s first on the agenda?” You sip at your orange juice again. 

 

“Well, technically breakfast was first,” Mycroft teases you. You poke your tongue out at him. “But I thought we could head to the park and take a stroll. I’ve booked lunch for us in a nice little spot in town.”

 

You smile, liking the sound of all of that. But as soon as Mycroft and you head out with linked arms and you see a poster in front of the local art gallery, advertising a new exhibition by one of your favourite artists that’s on at the moment you peer up at him hopefully. “Could we-?”

 

“Perhaps in a little while.” Mycroft looks away. 

 

You peer up at him, almost tempted to pout. This is supposed to be your birthday after all. Shouldn't you get to decide where you go? But then you remember that you’d once thought that he wouldn't be able to share any of the day with you at all, so, trusting him, you tilt your head down against him and close your eyes momentarily, feeling content. The art gallery’s no big deal after all. There’ll be other days when you can go there. 

 

Mycroft and you enter the park and weave along its path until you come to a comfortable bench in a quiet area. An elm tree stands proud and tall over it. 

 

As you sit down there you feel happy, snuggling into Mycroft’s side because it’s not the warmest of days and in any case do you really need an excuse? He tilts his head towards yours and makes a sound of satisfaction. His hand finds your knee. “I’ll have to make a shopping trip after lunch.”

 

_“Shopping?”_

 

“Yes. There are one or two things that I need to pick up for later.” Once more as you draw back from him a little he gives you that suggestive look. You cup at his cheek. Kiss him once, twice. “Mm,” he says and you release a happy breath as you pull back from one another. 

 

You sit on that bench for a while, talking and enjoying the time you have to just let things unfold naturally and the thoughts come to your brain as they please without you having to rush to think of saying them, before one of you goes off again. Then you get up and finish your leisurely loop of the park. 

 

Mycroft calls his driver and you get whisked off to a fancy, but friendly restaurant in the West End. There Mycroft and you touch hands, brush legs and flirt incessantly as you enjoy your meals. 

 

The driver returns and once you’re in your home neighbourhood again Mycroft gets the man to pull over. He then gently tells you to stay in the car, before he departs. 

 

Wondering what he’s up to you get a little fidgety, but when he returns with a singular plastic bag, sits down and lets you look inside to see its contents-candles, massage oil and a symphony of your favourite classical music on vinyl-you kiss him deeply. 

 

The driver wisely averts his eyes and finishes the trip home. There Mycroft and you bathe together and he gives you a massage, before you make love. The music he’d got earlier plays on in the background all the while and as the noise of the violins reach their crescendo so do you. 

 

You roll off Mycroft with a giggle. He gives you a fond look, brushing at your hair as you turn into him. “I'm afraid that as much as I’d be happy to stay like this for the remainder of the day we have to get up now. I believe there was an exhibition that you wanted to see?” he asks.

 

 _“Oh,”_ you say, turning him back to you when he begins to get up. He looks at you quizzically. Your hand brushes against the damp, glistening hairs of his chest. “I don’t mind staying here.” You bat your eyelashes at him and this time it’s you whose got a suggestive look about you. 

 

Mycroft smiles at you in amusement, sitting up properly this time. “Oh no, I’d quite like to see it myself.” He taps you on the nose. 

 

You stare at him curiously, sensing that he’s up to something again. Had that been why he hadn’t wanted to go to the gallery earlier? But when he simply begins to get dressed you do the same. 

 

He’s quiet as you head out once more and you wonder what’s going on, but as you step inside the art gallery you begin to forget, just enjoying the exhibition. 

 

Mycroft keeps close to you, gazing at you more than the paintings. Seeing how quickly you’re getting lost in the display, just like you always do, is reminding him of how you’d first met. 

 

He’d ducked into the gallery to take a quick break from the slow moving traffic and relentless rain, breaking the distance between the car and the gallery with his umbrella as usual when he’d seen a figure, perfectly still, but her face rapt with attention as she looked at one of the paintings. Her h/c hair had been dripping down her f/c waterproof jacket, but you wouldn't have thought that she was wet or cold at all. That figure, of course, had been you. The painting hadn’t been overly impressive, at least not to him, but he hadn’t been able to resist going to stand right by you. You obviously saw it differently. You hadn’t noticed him though. That was until you’d made to turn sharply away from the painting and knocked straight into him. You’d apologized and he’d let out a breath and felt astonished by how captivating your eyes were, especially with the raindrops clinging to your eyelashes just above them. He wasn’t usually one to notice such things and you hadn’t shared much more than that, but his gaze had followed you out of the art gallery and he’d felt happy when you’d looked over your shoulder at him.  
He’d found himself popping into the gallery more and more after that in the hope that he’d see you. But he hadn’t again until a month and a half later. You’d later admitted that your heart had leapt when you’d spotted his figure stalking about as if he might be looking for someone and hoped that it might be you. Turns out that you’d been going to the gallery more too. You’d just kept missing one another. As he’d stopped beside you with a quirk of your lips you’d said, ‘Hello again,’ he’d felt so spurred on that he’d casually suggested that you might want to go for a coffee some time to talk about _‘Art.’_ The coffee oddly enough had taken place straight away and he’d started the conversation off once your drinks had arrived as if he’d been talking about a painting. You’d blushed something wonderful when you’d realized that he was actually talking about you. You’d let him kiss you tentatively on the cheek and exchanged numbers, before you’d departed. To your delight he’d called you that night and you’d gone on a few more coffee dates, which had then turned into dinner, which had then turned into breakfast…

 

Mycroft blinks out of thought and suddenly realizes that he’s been staring at the same painting obliviously for several minutes now and that you’re nowhere to be seen. 

 

Feeling panicked he turns his head just as you appear by him again. “I’d call you scatter brained if I didn't know you any better.” You peck at his shoulder. Mycroft smiles down at you in relief. “Is this your favourite?” You nod at the painting. 

 

“No,” he answers, because it’s time for him to be as crazy and brave as he’d been when he’d first been racing around the gallery searching for you. “My favourite’s in here actually.” He pulls you off into a separate area and you think he’s joking because this isn't even part of the main exhibition that you’d wanted to see. But then you see the large blown up black and white photograph of yourself that’s in the corner on the right. Your head is half turned towards the camera, your face framed by sunlight and you stop because once more you can’t believe it. Mycroft has to pull you the rest of the way. “My favourite’s here. My favourite’s you,” he murmurs softly. 

 

You stare between him and the photo. “You did this for me?”

 

“Of course,” he tells you. “This is where we first met and if I’ve learnt anything over the years then it’s that no one deserves to have their image in a gallery more than you.” You feel breathless. Mycroft turns you towards him. “When I first saw you it was as if one of the beautiful people in the paintings had jumped right out of their frame. The thing is”-he takes your hands in his-“I wanted to follow you just like you want to follow your favourite artists, so I did and I have and you’ve let me. But it still isn't enough, so F/N L/N”- he lets go of one of your hands and drops to one knee now. You clap a hand over your mouth as he brings a beautiful f/c and white engagement ring out of his pocket and holds it up to the light-“Will you marry me?”

 

 _“Yes!”_ you say, and Mycroft gets up just in time for you to fling your arms around his neck and kiss him senseless. You’re so in love with him that it takes you a moment to realize that, that odd sound you can hear in the background is people clapping. You release a long breath as you pull away from him. 

 

Mycroft and you look as one to your audience, Mycroft slipping the ring onto your finger at the same time, and you let out another gasp of surprise. For there, beaming at you, is your mother and all of your friends-Sherlock, John, Molly, Sally, Greg and even Mrs. Hudson. You feel like bursting into tears because this day has become more than you ever thought it would and as Mycroft helps guide you forwards you do. 

 

You’re almost at your mother and about to hug her, when, in a fit of tears and sniffles, you let out a squeak of breath and turn to hug Mycroft instead. “Thank you,” you whisper as your hands wrap around his neck, “This has been the best birthday ever.” 

 

He clutches you to him tenderly, one hand cupping your hair. “You’re the picture I never want to give up,” he says and you burrow your head into his shoulder.


End file.
